


Taking Care

by Anon_E_Miss



Category: Transformers - AU, Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, M/M, Mech Preg, Religious Extremists, Who the Fucks Knows What Else I am Forgetting, parental neglect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 01:25:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17457953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_E_Miss/pseuds/Anon_E_Miss
Summary: To give his creations a better future, Prowl takes a job tutoring and guarding the young creations of a rich, and famous musician in far away Polihex. His new employer is charming and generous, the mechlings curious and traumatized. He pours his all into caring for the Twins, and by wrot, their progenitor as he tries to make the mega-cycles away from his own creations pass more quickly. There is undeniable chemistry between the Praxian and his Polihexian employer. Surrendering to it will have consequence Prowl would never have imagined, and rewards he would not have dared dream.





	Taking Care

The heat of Polihex was oppressive. Prowl felt it the instant he stepped from the climate controlled transport. His doorwings fell, and he recoiled. It felt like a smelter. Though he had known that much of the polity’s landmass was made up of the Wastes, he had not considered that the capital itself would have been within the borders of the desert itself. Already, he felt like he might overheat if he pushed his engine too hard. Perhaps Polihex was not the escape he had hoped in would be, the prospect was more than a little devastating. He could not imagine bringing his creations into this climate, his poor bitlets would suffocate in the oppressive heat. There was no doubt that this was a set back. For a few nanokliks Prowl considered going to the service counter and booking a return flight to Praxus. If the Praxian could not bare the heat, what was the point of going to the interview? In the end, he resolved to uphold his commitment. Best Care connected job-seekers and employers across the whole of Cybertron, and the Colonies, if Prowl cancelled at the last klik, he would likely find himself blacklisted, and that he could not afford.

 

Resigning himself to the heat, Prowl transformed, and following the coordinates he had been giving by the agency, drove from the Hub. The temperature felt even more intolerable as the Praxian drove further into the capital. He did not want to even imagine how much worse it would be in the mid-cycle. Alpha Centaurii had a ways yet to rise, and its rays were already scorching Prowl’s plating. With his engine putting out more heat, as was normal during a drive, his frame’s core temperature rose to deeply unpleasant levels. His coolant systems would protect him from any real harm, as long as he did not push his limits, but it would unpleasant the whole time. Prowl followed the sleek Polihexian alt-modes as the road merged onto the highway. There were symbols on his GPS he did not understand, but the directions called for this highway, and so he drove on. They approached a tunnel, and the Praxian felt a small surge of relief, at least he would be out of the glaring sun for a few nanokliks. It was blessedly cooler in the tunnel, and Prowl watched his temperature gauge fall below red line, he could only hope there were more of these tunnels. Just distracted enough by the relief he felt, Prowl did not immediately notice as the highway pitched down, and down.

 

At the speed he was driving, and with all the other mechanisms on the road, Prowl did not slam on his breaks, or even slow as he realized this highway was taking him well underground, well below the surface of Polihex. Crystal formations, scattered inconsistently along the walls of the cave offered some illumination, as did those overhead, though it was his headlights that offered him the most visual acuity. He wondered briefly if he was driving into a trap, but it seemed unlikely, there were so many other mechanisms on the road. It seemed like any highway the foreign mech had ever driven home in Praxus, except it was underground. Illuminated signs warned of exits, and Prowl took the next one, on the instruction of his GPS, and he drove deeper into the cavernous network beneath Polihex, until he reached a canal? His GPS directed him to a loading area, and Prowl lined up to board a barge... or rather a ferry. Like all the other mechanisms waiting for they turn, he transformed.

 

Dark though it was, Prowl could still see, but not with any of the usual detail he would expect in a well lit space. Polihexian were said to have good visual sensors, perhaps it was because they lived in only the dimmest light. The glow of crystal formations were the only light proffered, and it appeared they grew naturally, wherever they deigned to form, it did not appear to Prowl that they were being cultivated, though how you would he could not guess. He flinched as the crowd grew tighter as the next ferry arrived, and he actually had to swallow a curse, and the instinct to fight. Everything was so tight, he was closed in, his doorwings saw a million things at once, and nothing at the same time. Already, Prowl felt a helmache forming. At the earliest opportunity, he would need to try and tune his sensors to account for his enclosed surroundings. Unnatural as it felt to be deeper below ground, to be carted along down a river on a barge, at least the temperature was pleasant. There was no need to worry about acid rains, or storms either, but those must of been rare in the desert. Sandstorms would not have been, and there was also a matter of attacks. Polihex must have taken itself underground millions of years ago, given the infrastructure, there were bound to be a multitude of reasons. Eerie as it was, Prowl thought he could live underground, at least for a time, so long as he was out of that insufferable heat.

 

He stepped off the ferry and walked along the sidewalk that followed the canal. Polihex appeared to be divided into districts, connected by a central highway, and a complex canal network. It made sense to limit the driving underground, crashes could be very ugly. The citizens of Polihex were smaller than the Praxian had expected, none came higher than his optics, the majority were only as high as his shoulders. They were not so sleek as Velocitronians, but somewhat more compact, still they were overall slighter than him, and he was not a war-built Praxian. Though Prowl had been concerned about walking in the Polihexian street, like most of his framekin he had a well divined sense of personal space, the Polihexians around him gave him enough of a berth. They were reasonably mindful of each other as well, not elbowing their way past like on Velocitron. Perhaps that was because, unlike Velocitronians, they were not in so great a hurry to get wherever they intended to go.

 

It was only a three klik walk to the final coordinates Prowl had been given. The building that housed Best Care’s Polihexian office was covered in a mosaic of crystal tiles. Prowl paused a moment to examine the artwork. Polihex appeared to be an odd blend and darkness and colour. Looking closer, with the benefit of the mosaic’s glow, he realized the building was a deep blue, not slate or grey as he had though. He wondered how much detail he was missing. As the frametypes of Cybertron went, Praxians had the least specialized optics, though their vision was not exactly poor. A mechanisms processor could only tolerate so much sensory feedback, and Praxians had doorwings, sensory wings that both saw, felt and heard their world. They had no need for finally tuned optics.

 

The interior of the office building was brighter lit than the cavernous city at large, though not to any degree Prowl would have considered normal. Illuminated by carved crystals that appeared to be of the same genus as those outside, the smaller space gave the crystals’ glow a great affect. Best Care’s lobby was empty, save for a mech manning the reception desk, an observation that did not surprise Prowl, given the joor he imagined his was the first appointment of the mega-cycle. He approached the desk, walking past the counter which held both coolant and energon. His flight had passed over the dark-cycle, and the Praxian had not stopped for fuel, neither had he actually recharged at all. Provided the fuel was available for visitors, Prowl hoped a little desperately for a bream to consume both.

 

“What can I do for ya?” The mech operating the reception desk asked. Prowl had to repeat what the mech said over his his helm before he processed it. Polihex’s dialect of Neo Cybex was jarring to him, and this mech spoke very quickly, at least to the Praxian’s audials.

 

“I have an appointment with Jackpot,” Prowl replied. It was his accent, not the receptionist’s that was out of place, he reminded himself, he was the foreigner.

 

“Of course!” The receptionist exclaimed. “You’d be the eight joor, of course... He’s not in yet. Did you come right off the transport? Maybe you’d like some energon? It’s just over there, pour yourself some. Jackpot’ll come out to get you at eight.”

 

“Thank you,” the Praxian replied, his helm almost spinning with the speed of the mech’s speech.

 

Grateful for a moment to clear his helm, and to centre himself, Prowl walked to the counter and poured himself some coolant before walking over to the pressed energon dispenser. He was not surprised to find it did not have a brew like he was used to drinking, this was Polihex, not Praxus, but he settle for the strongest brew in offering and filled his cube. It was carved from some hefty crystal, Prowl realized, prettier than the utilitarian cubes he had stocked in his home. This cube did not strike him as being an ostentatious design, and he wondered if Polihex used crystals for everything, they were on of the largest producers of a significant amount of the crystal and ore used throughout the planet, not just the delicate, luxurious crystals so favoured in Praxus and the Crystals City. It appeared the crystals favoured in Polihex were sturdy, and seemingly endless in supply. Drained from the joors of travel, and the emotional upheaval of leaving his creations behind, Prowl sat in one of the chairs on offer and drank his energon. The chair was not designed for a mechanism with doorwings or wings of any design, it offered neither support nor give for his sensory wings, in short it was very much uncomfotable. Prowl made a note, if he was to remain, he was going to need to invest in cushions, somehow he doubted his potential employer would have furnishings designed for his frametype.

 

The back of the chair hit him in exactly the wrong spot and Prowl shuffled forward, and sat careful and straight. It was not a restive posture, but the last thing he needed was strained door joints, or compressed sensors, especially in a foreign place where medical coverage may be an issue. Prowl drank the fuels he had collected, first the coolant, and then the energon, and the worst of his helmache faded off. With his processor glitch, the Praxian was more prone to overheating, and burnt though more coolant than most mechanisms. When his levels dropped, the first symptom was always a helmache, but then a helmache was the first symptom of many of his ills. It was not quite so terrible as the ache in his spark, however. It had only been joors, how was he supposed to manage this distance? Fair, it was closer than Velocitron would have been, but it was still the other side of the world. Boarding the transport from Praxus to Polihex had been one of the more difficult actions of Prowl’s life. At the last nanoklik, he had wavered on leaving Smokescreen and Bluestreak in his originator’s care. It would have suited him so much more to take them with him, but he had known it would be folly, and so he had followed his processor, and not his spark, and he had boarded the transport alone, listening to little Bluestreak’s sharp wails as he had walked away. Their grand-originator would care for them. Though he thought poorly of his own creation, Bishop spoiled his grand-creations, though he was stricter in some aspects that Prowl cared for, fixated on appearance and propriety to an almost fanatical degree at times. It would only be for a vorn of separation, he reminded himself, and Prowl would return home to visit as often as he could afford, at least twice a stellar-cycle, and he would comm them every dark-cycle, they would not forget his face.

 

Polihex was more of an unknown that Prowl had been prepared for. Nothing he had found in his research had mentioned this underground world. But then, the media and data-net more restricted back home than it was in other states. It was governed by ancient traditions, and a rigid caste system, and he had run afoul of that system, on three different grounds. His originator had called him a feckless, greedy fool for seeking a bond with Polaris, a warm-sparked mech three castes above his own. Of course Polaris’ procreators had refused to offer their consent, it had been more shocking, more difficult to comprehend when Bishop had refused to give his blessing. The denial of one set of procreators would not have been an insurmountable obstacle, but the denial the procreator or procreators of both intendeds? No, that was not an obstacle that could ever be overcome. In defiance of their procreators, Prowl and Polaris had lived together, had a family together, all without bonding, refusing all offers their procreators had tried to arrange for them both to different mechanisms. Together they had been strong enough to weather the social stigma, and they had held on to their careers through skill and stubbornness. But when Polaris had died, when he had not been there to reign his procreators in, they had used their higher status to destroy Prowl’s reputation and his career and all future prospects in Praxus would gone. Polihex was unknown, but in the six vorns following Polaris’ death, there was no denying that the smear Polaris’ procreators had heaped on Prowl was never going to fade, and so into the unknown the Praxian had been forced to go.

 

He had found Best Care on the data-net, one of the few job sites that managed to slip under the radar of Praxian censors, that linked international job-seekers and employers. Prowl had created a profile, listed his credentials and his experience, and he had waited. It had not been much of a wait. Only a quartex after the desperate originator had made his profile, a representative for the job site had contacted him with a job offer. It had not worked out, Prowl had turned down the job on Velocitron, for a myriad of reasons. Thankfully it had not been long before he had been contacted with another offer. The employer was particular, very particular, so particular his job posting had been on the site for forty stellar-cycles. This mech, a performer of some renown, or so Best Care’s representative had said, had a long list of demands but the most unusual one, and the one that had seen Prowl contacted, was that he would only take a Praxian. Of course this had raised alarm bells in Prowl’s helm. There were mechanisms out there that sought to traffic vulnerable mech and femme around the world to live as courtesans, prostibots, and interfaces slaves, and there were also mechanisms who had fetishes for particular frametypes, Praxians were a popular target. Despite knowing all this, despite having combatted mecha-trafficking for vorns as an Enforcer, Prowl had done three data-net interviews with the mysterious employer’s representatives, and had offered his tentative acceptance, dependant on a final, in person interview.

 

With his training in martial arts, along with his specific Enforcer training, Prowl was not a vulnerable innocent, he would not fall prey to traffickers. As a mech who struggled if he did not have a plan for every possible outcome in any given situation, the originator had already spent mega-cycles in thought, considering what he would do should things go wrong in Polihex. The fact that Polihex was a city built in a network of caves ought not to pose any greater danger. He was wilful, and strong, and he would not suffer abuse, he had enough saving to return to Praxus early if there was no choice, but if this “celebrity” merely wanted to fondle his doorwings, or otherwise use Prowl’s frame for his pleasure, the Praxian may well elect to tolerate it. As long as there was no violence, as long as he was well paid, so long as he would be able to bring his creations to Polihex after he was licensed to, he may well open his panel and spread his legs if the offer was right. True, it would be demeaning if came to this, but he had already been labelled a whore, perhaps it had always been a self-fulfilling prophesy. In any case, Prowl had no intention of making whatever this was a permanent job, it was just a means to an end, a way to get his ped in the door, it would only be for one vorn.

 

“Prowl?” A black and yellow Polihexian called his designation.

 

“Yes, Sir,” Prowl replied. He was the only mechanism waiting in the lobby, obviously the mech was looking for him.

 

“I’m Jackpot, did yer flight go alright?” The mech asked.

 

“Yes, Sir,” the Praxian replied. “I have no complaints.”

 

“Ya made yer way down here easy, I see,” Jackpot said. “That’s good. The Maestro’ll be pleased.

 

“The instructions I received were vague, but ultimately clear enough,” Prowl replied. From talking with Jackpot, Prowl got the impression that that leaving out the fact that Polihex was built in the underground had been quite intentional.

 

“Yer perspective employer’s waiting upstairs,” Jackpot explained as he let Prowl from the lobby. “I’m just going to go over the job with ya before I bring ya in to meet.”

 

“Understood,” the job-seeker replied. He did not even try to make conversation, he was abysmal at small talk.

 

“You were an Enforcer for twenty vorn, you’ve master three martial arts, you graduated top of your class,” the Polihexian went through his resume as they reached his office. It was no less colourful than the lobby, and and perhaps even less bright, this mech seemed to favour gold and red crystals, which caste an odd glow on the room. “Your resume was impressive. Of course we’ve confirmed it all. The Maestro has a job that is... unique. He’s looking for a live in caretaker/tutor for his twin creations. Along with homeschooling them, you’d be guarding them. There was a kidnapping attempt at their old school... It was an ugly thing, and he’s naturally very protective of them. His recording, and performing schedule keeps him from home for some long mega-cycles, it’s important for him to know they are safe.”

 

“I can think of no reason I would not be up to the task,” the job-seeker said. “As you are aware, I have two creations, I am familiar with their needs. You have my general requirements.”

 

“Yes, yes,” Jackpot replied. “The Maestro generously offered forty-five vacation mega-cycles per stellar-cycles, to be spread out over the stellar-cycle, of course. I haven’t told him about yer creations... I’d recommend against mentioning them just yet. It’s important to the Maestro that whoever he hires devotes himself to the task of caring for his twins. If he thinks ya’ll be distracted thinking of home...”

 

“I prefer to keep my personal life separate from business,” Prowl replied. So he would have to hide his family, it was probably not a bad idea, better than explaining the complexity of his relationship with their progenitor, and his reasoning for leaving them behind.

 

“Excellent,” the Polihexian said. “Why don’t ya wait here, and I’ll bring in the Maestro.”

 

It was not a question. Jackpot rose from his own chair, and walked from his office, not pausing a nanoklik to let Prowl answer. The Praxian sat straight in his chair, it may a well have been unpadded, it was far too stiff for his doorwings. He had good posture, and a strong and healthy frame, Prowl did not need to sink into soft surfaces for rest or relaxation, although a rest would be nice. If he had been forced to wait long, his battle computer would likely have come up with some more outlandish potential scenarios, but he was not made to wait long. His doorwings detected the door being trigger before it actually opened, and he rose, and turned to meet his potential employer.

 

“Ah, just like a soldier, I think,” Jackpot said so Prowl, to the new Polihexian. “Maestro Jazz, Prowl.”

 

“Good to meet ya,” the Maestro said. He was black and white, Prowl thought, quite similar to his own colouring. Jazz had pronounced audials, horns in his case, typical of Polihexians, and he wore an opaque visor over his optics that caste a turquoise glow over his smooth faceplates. The mech was a full helm and neck shorter than Prowl, he moved like a pneumalion. When he looked up at the Praxian the Maestro smiled broadly. Prowl thought his greater size was enough to make him appealing as a guard, and if Jazz’s smile was genuine, he approved of what he saw. As the job-seeker nodded his helm in greeting, Jazz extended his servo. Prowl reached out his own. The Polihexian’s gripped was strong as they shook servos. Though the Praxian was afraid the other mech would move in for a more... personal greeting, he did not.

 

“Would you like to use my office for the interview?” The business mech asked.

 

“Please,” Jazz replied. “Do ya need fuel, Prowl? Thinkin’ ya had a long flight. Sucks ‘bout the delay in yer layover in Iacon.”

 

“I have fuelled, thank you,” Prowl replied. He could not say if the mech’s monitoring of his travels was a positive or a negative, it depended a great deal on the mech himself. The Praxian’s cause would not be served well rushing to judgment.

 

“Maybe another coupla cubes,” the Maestro suggested. “Temperature usually hits like an overcharged combiner wit a denta ache, that’s why I booked ya the early flight. Praxus don’t get near as hot, even in calor (summer).”

 

“I’ll have someone bring it in,” Jackpot replied, and he was gone again. It was only Prowl, and his perspective employer, and there was no denying the job-seeker was nervous, but he had enough self-control to keep it under wraps.

 

“Thanks for comin’ on such short notice,” Jazz said, once they were alone. “I been lookin’ for a caretaker for my bits for half a vorn, ain’t found even one mech to interview until ya.”

 

“You specifically wish to employ one of my frametype,” Prowl said. “Praxian norms do not lend to working outside of our state.”

 

“Jackpot warned me ‘bout that in the beginnin’,” the Polihexian replied. “Ya resigned from the Enforcers, that’s what yer profile says. Why?”

 

“I ran afoul of our caste system,” the job-seeker explained. “Prior to the death of my partner, we lived together having never spoken the Rites. His procreators blamed me for his death, and used their positions to ruin my job prospects. I attempted to rebuild my reputation in Praxus, but in six vorns I have been unsuccessful. I thought it was time to see what Cybertron at large might offer.”

 

“I’m sorry for yer loss,” Jazz sighed. “I know somethin’ ‘bout castes. My Twins origin is a Seeker. Grounders, groundpounders Seekers call’em, don’t qualify as citizens. He carried’em, never lettin’ another flier see’m here, ‘n went home after. ‘M grateful he did that much. They’re everythin’ to me.”

 

“Jackpost mentioned there was a kidnapping attempt which inspired your job posting,” Prowl said. He felt, almost unclean, pretending as though his creations did not exist. It was for the best, the originator told himself.

 

“I had a short thing wit a mech called Dealer,” the Maestro explained. “We got serious enough that I let’em meet my bitlets, but they didn’t like’em, frag that, they hated him on sight, so that was that. He got it into his fraggin’ helm if the Twins approved, we’d hook back up, ‘n he’d enjoy the benefits o’ bein’ wit someone like me. So he tried to take’em from their school. Went to the office, said he was their origin and the fraggin’ mechanisms took my bitlets outta class. They don’t got an origin, not on record anyways. Sunny tried to tell the administrator this wasn’t his origin or anyone they outta go with, ‘n Dealer grabbed ‘m, ‘n Sides ‘n tried to pull’em along, promisin’ a fun ‘cycle or some slag. Don’t know how he thought one mega-cycle at an arcade would do slag. They tried to get away, ‘n Dealer hurt Sides a bit, ‘nough to make Sunny lose it. He’s the oldest, he’s protective of his Twin. Their split-sparks, they feel a lot o’ what each other is feelin’, includin’ physical pain. Dealer broke Sunny’s arm. Thank Primus, someone at that school had a processor, figured out something was wrong, ‘n they called the Enforcers.”

 

“That would have been terrifying for them,” the Praxian replied. “For you as well when you received notice. The school ought to have had a sign in and out policy in place.”

 

“I was recordin’ in the studio,” Jazz said. “Took a while for the call to get to me. Sides had some dents, mostly he was feelin’ Sunny’s pain ‘n they were both hysterical. Sunny needed surgery... I always called ‘m Sunny... He don’t like it now. Dealer called’m that... Now he just wants to be called Sunstreaker... I couldn’t send’em back to that school. For a while they didn’t wanna leave the habsuite, even now they only will wit me, so it means they’re stuck at home most o’ the time. They’ve been doin’ school over the datanet, but I’d like someone servos on wit’em, someone they can learn to trust ‘nough to get out wit. That piece of slag’s trial’s finally comin’ up, fraggin’ finally. I’ve tried, but they know. They’re scared he’ll get off... So fraggin’ scared they don’t wanna go out at all.”

 

“You are afraid they will be taken,” Prowl observed. “If not by Dealer, by someone else.”

 

“My album last stellar-cycle went Cybertite,” the Polihexian explained. “It all sorta blew up. Polihex’s first “star” in millenia, media is insane ‘round here, ‘n ‘m their favourite target o’ the moment. They got their dentas on the trial, got the lights on my bitlets... Enforcers’ve caught on to a few threats, a few ransom plans... Ya, ‘m scared. That’s why I wanted a Praxian.”

 

“I do not understand,” the job-seeker said.

 

“Yer doors, ya can see behind ya, that’s what they say,” Jazz replied.

 

“That is a simplification, but accurate enough,” Prowl agreed. “They are not precisely visual sensors, but more akin to tactile. I feel what is around me, and my processor translates the data into an image, more or less. We are difficult to sneak up on, from emergence. With my Enforcer training I have techniques that make it that much more difficult.”

 

“Beautiful,” the Maestro said. “Resume mentioned ya got a coupla degrees, which is cool. Ya don’t gotta write any coursework, the online school covers that slag, but it’s pretty open for a personal touch.”

 

“Do you have religious or cultural objections to any particular subjects?” The Praxian asked.

 

“Nah,” Jazz replied. “More they learn, the better. If ya want it, the job is yours, so long as the Twins don’t run screamin’.”

 

“I would be pleased to meet them,” Prowl replied. His spark was racing. As much as he both needed and wanted this job, the prospect came with significant grief. If all went well, he would not be returning to Praxus for five quartexes.

 

They exited the office building through a back door that led out to a hidden roadway. Polihex was a maze, Prowl was coming to realize. It would be easy to get lost. Jackpot drove with them, a policy of Best Care, he had explained, for their job-seekers’ protection. Unless the mechanisms had military or Enforcer training the Praxian was unaware of, he thought he would be able to take care of himself. But it was a responsible policy, and thus he offered no opposition. For a moment, he worried they were driving back to the surface, as the road they took went up and up. Unlike the highway, the walls were close, the lanes more narrow. Never in his life had Prowl felt so claustrophobic, and he almost would have preferred to drive in the desert. But the road opened up again, and they drove out into a gated district, overlooking the larger cavern below. This was the realm of the elite, ought how this observation made him grieve. These manors carved from the rock itself looked nothing like the ziggurats Polaris had spent his formative stellar-cycles in, but there was no mistaking that these stone habsuites housed his betters. Jazz, of course, was his better.

 

The plateau was breath taking. A river of energon ran through the district, and poured over the edge in a waterfall, feeding the canals below. Crystal growths were cultivated to grown on the walls of these great homes. As Prowl looked up, he realized the stalactites above his helm had been carved in intricate designs. Everywhere he looked, every building he saw, everything was a piece of art. Jazz led the way higher and deeper, all the way up to a habsuite carved out the very back wall of the cavern, raised above the waterfall. Prowl thought it looked like something from one of the sparkling books he read his creations, something out of high fantasy, how little he knew of the world beyond Praxus. He was awestruck, and bewildered, and covered up both with a neutral mask. Vines of crystals climbed the walls, gardens of them stretched out to meet them. Smokescreen would not believe the pictures.

 

“Lil mechs, ‘m back, show yerselves,” Jazz called as they entered his stunning home. From somewhere deeper in the habsuite, pedsteps echoed. A few nanokliks later, a pair of mechlings appeared, just peering around the corner. One of them, red and black in colour, let out a shriek and disappeared back around the corner. Prowl’s doorwings drooped a few degrees, it was another setback.

 

“Y’re a weirdo, Sides,” the yellow mechling said, and he walked fully into few. “Ya look different than the books.”

 

“I believe art often exaggerates our doorwings,” Prowl replied.

 

“Sideswipe, front ‘n centre,” the progenitor ordered, and the mechling obeyed. “Really? Gotta haze’m, h’uh?”

 

“Ya have to admit, it was funny,” Sideswipe snickered. His brother rolled his optics.

 

“Scraplet,” Jazz said, the glyph spoken with deep affection. “Mechlings, this is Prowl. Prowl, both o’em are trouble when they set their processors to it, but Sides lives ‘n ventilates mayhem, my origin would say he takes after me, at that age. Sun...streaker only sometimes deigns to join’m in evil.”

 

“That’s ‘cause I’m his only target most mega-cycles,” Sunstreaker said. His expression morphed from a scowl to a smile as his progenitor referred to him by his preferred designation. He looked up at Prowl. “I hope ya know what ya got yerself into.”

 

“I believe I am getting a general idea,” the Praxian replied. The mechlings grinned at each other.

 

“Can ya really see with those?” The mischievous mechlings asked.

 

“I can,” Prowl said. “If you are ever able to sneak up on me, you will have earned a reward.”

 

“Yer on!” Sideswipe cheered. His twin had a thoughtful look. There was no doubt in Prowl’s processor he would join his brother in this challenge.”

 

“Got the contract, Jackpot?” Jazz asked, with a bemused smile. “’M thinkin’ they approve.”

 

“Of course, right here,” the business mech said.

 

“Alright bits, ya can hang wit us or go ‘n play,” the monochrome Polihexian said. “We’re gonna be doin’ a bit o’ legal slag in the kitchen for a joor or so.”

 

“I’m out,” Sunstreaker said, and he turned to leave. Sideswipe followed after him.

 

“Let Bob outta wherever ya stashed ‘m,” Jazz ordered.

 

“Bob?” Prowl asked.

 

“Bag o’ Bolts,” the progenitor explained. “Their pet Insecticon. He follows Sunny ‘round like he’s his hatchlin’. We just call’m Bob.”

 

The remainder of the joor, and the better part of the next, the three mechs poured over the contract, making a few amendments as required. Jazz did appear truly agreeable to the vacation mega-cycles Prowl required, which was ultimately the only thing he truly cared about. Jackpot was more concerned than he regarding the joors of work, and compensation. Ultimately, they all game away pleased with the contract Jazz, and Prowl both signed. He suspected Best Care received some percentage of the salary he would earn, which gave Jackpot an invested interest in the sum of credits the Praxian earned. He signed his glyph to a vorn’s contract, and told himself he was not signing away his spark. In a vorn he would qualify to apply for legal status, and he would be able to bring his bitlets to him, and he would have enough credits saved for a comfortable habsuite as he found more permanent work. In the meantime, he would see what he might do to help the Maestro’s sparklings feel safe again.

 

“Lemme show ya yer suite,” Jazz said after he showed Jackpot out. “I furnished it wit yer frametype in processor, lemme know if anythin’ ain’t just right.”

 

“I am certain everything will be acceptable,” Prowl replied.

 

“All the same,” the Polihexian said. “Ya outta be comfortable so long as yer livin’ here. I got ‘nough credits to see to that.”

 

An asymmetrical mass of colour and limbs appeared from nowhere and put himself between Prowl and the closest door. The Insecticon flared his motley plating and made an angry buzz as he rubbed two sloping pieces of armour together. This was clearly Bob, and Bob did not know him, or his scent, and was not about to let him near his masters’ space. It appeared to Prowl that the mechanimal was going through a moult which no doubt did not help his mood. He knelt in front of the creature and extended his servos, palms down, for the Insecticon to smell. Bob stopped his aggressive display and shuffled around Prowl to sniffed every micrometre of him. His mandible brushed against the Praxian’s back, and Prowl could not help but cringe. When the mechanimal came back around his front to sniff, and to stare, the newcomer reached out his servo to scratch a particularly dull looking plate free. Bob made a contented chirp and nuzzled Prowl’s chassis with appreciation.

 

“Looks like ya met his approval,” Jazz said. “Bob, Prowl’s safe. Gotta, buddy?”

 

Bob did not respond, exactly, but after another demand for scritches, the Insecticon lumbered over to the closest door and trotted inside. Having received the creature’s blessing, Prowl returned to his peds. Beasts like this one were considered vermin, meant to be exterminated in Praxus. No Praxian would ever consider that they could be domesticated. Prowl thought he would spare his originator this detail. Mechanimal husbandry had never been the guardmech’s passion, but calm, and patience worked for most creatures. As a mech that was predisposed to calm, Prowl thought he would manage to live alongside Bag of Bolts without any real conflict. He understood why Jazz allowed his creations this pet, the Insecticon was another defender for the young mechlings. Everything around them spoke to the progenitor’s desire to keep his creations safe. The location of the habsuite, the high walls around the front of the property, the crystals that rang as you walked by, the pet Insecticon, and now a Praxian guard. It occurred to Prowl to wonder who recharged worse, the bitlets or the progenitor?

 

“The Twins’ habsuite is just over there, ya probably guessed,” the Polihexian said. “I’m next to’m. ‘Cross the hall is the “classroom”, ‘n yer just over here.”

 

Jazz opened the door to Prowl’s suite, and the Praxian realized all at once by his employer had been referring to it as a suite. He had a berthroom, a small sitting room with an energon dispenser, and private washracks. The space itself was only marginally smaller than the quarters his originator had allocated him after he had been force to return to his family home, and that included his bitlets’ berthroom. In the sitting room, there was a workstation, a far better model than the one in his subspace. From the chair in front of it, and the sofa, at the centre of the sitting room, all of the furniture was deep and well padded. They did not appear to have been imported from Praxus, the style was wrong, but whoever Jazz had commissioned to build them had done their research. They fit into the Polihexian home, but would serve his Praxian frame well. In something like a stunned silence, Prowl followed Jazz to the berthroom, and looked inside. There was no cause for complaint here. If his optics were not lying to him, the berth pad looked thick, and the helm of the berth was covered in pillows.

 

“Ya must be exhausted,” Jazz said. “Why don’t ya come out for dinner, kitchen’s downstairs. Intercoms, back in there, if ya need any help.”

 

“Thank you,” Prowl replied. “I am capable of work...”

 

“’Charge, Mech,” the Maestro interrupted him with the firm but warm order. “We’ll work out wit the Twins what tomorrow’ll look like at dinner.”

 

He was exhausted, and so when Jazz left him, Prowl tested the berth, it was the softest thing he had touched, or perhaps he was just that tired. Though it would have been wonderful to just collapse back and recharge, the Praxian left the berth and berthroom and crossed over to the workstation and sat down. It was no berth, but the chair was comfortable, and supported his tired doorwings nicely. Not so rigid as not to appreciate the luxury, Prowl sighed with contentment. With the next nanoklik he straightened his back, and entered his originator’s comm ID. It beeped, and beeped, and beeped, and the originator’s spark sank. At this joor, Smokescreen would have been home, there was no reason for Bishop to have taken them anywhere, but the comm went to a recorded message. Prowl could not pretended that he was not disappointed as he left his originator a message, confirming that he had accepted the position, and promising to call again. Saddened that he could not see or speak to his bitlets, the Praxian returned to his berth, laid down, and recharged.

 

There was no message waiting for him when he rose a few joors later, and Prowl tried to call his originator again. Again, the call went to inbox. Perhaps Bishop had taken the mechlings out for a treat, something to distract them from their originator’s absence. Prowl wanted to believe the best of his originator, but it felt forced. It was entirely possible that Bishop was ignoring his comms out of spite, even though it would distress the grand-creations he told all he adored. Unfortunately it was all too likely that his originator would go back on his promise to support communication between his creation and grand-creations, and he would argue it was in the best interest of those bitlets, to save them from their originator’s poor influence.

 

Had Bishop only given Prowl his blessing, Smokescreen and Bluestreak would not have emerged bastards. Polaris’ procreators would not have been able to loot his home, and his lovers’ accounts after Polaris had died while racing to the medicentre to be at Prowl’s side when had Bluestreak emerged stellar-cycles early. They had done all of this while their grand-creations’ originator had been recovering from emergence, grieving deeply while trying to care for a sick mechling, and a grief stricken one. Those mechanisms, they had robbed their own grand-creations, not as that they had ever claimed Smokescreen or Bluestreak as kin. Because Prowl and Polaris had never been permitted to bond, they had never been able to merge their credit accounts, and as next of kin, Polaris’ procreators had been able to loot every shanix save from those in Smokescreen’s trust.

 

Prowl had faced eviction within four quartexes of losing Polaris, he had not had the funds to pay the rent. Though he had tried to return to work unseemly early, what he had found in the Enforcer station was scorn. Rumours had surged in his meagre absence, claiming trysts between he and various commanders had been witnessed, claiming he was blackmailing these same mechanisms. These mechanisms who had been his mentors turned their backs to save their own careers and bondings, and Prowl had been dismissed from the Enforcers. Because he had not been bonded to Polaris he had not been entitled to survivors benefits. It had been as his originator, and those who thought like them had always said. Be careful what you do or you’ll be left with nothing but a bastard in your forge, except in Prowl’s case he had two in his arms. Of course he had been grateful when his originator had allowed him to return to the family home, radiating smug superiority, and the conviction that he had been right all along. Prowl had suffered it in respectful silence, because living under Bishop’s roof meant living with his scorn, as it always had, and it had been enough that his originator had dotted on Smokescreen and Bluestreak. Since moving back into the family home, Bishop had attempted, often successfully, to overrule Prowl’s procreating decisions. It really should not have come as a surprise that he would renege on their agreement, that did not mean it was any less frustrating, or that it hurt any less.

 

Resigned that he would not speak to Smokescreen and Bluestreak this mega-cycle, Prowl rose from the workstation, and looked around the room. Really, it was a generous space. Jazz had invested a great deal in his comfort. Given the size, and location of the mansion, the Polihexian could afford such an investment, there was no reason to feel guilty. Still, it made the Praxian uneasy. Polaris had not been frivolous exactly, but he had lived in the moment, and Prowl had asked him over and over to put more of his pay away, if nowhere else but in Smokescreen’s trust fund. His lover had always kissed and nuzzled him, chided him lovingly not to worry so much. In the end, it would not have mattered, Polaris’ procreators would have looted any savings. They had looted everything of value from Prowl’s and Polaris’ home, presuming their lawyer creation would have been the one to pay for those luxuries. True, they would not have been wrong, but many of those luxuries had been tokens purchased for Prowl, many had been purchased for Smokescreen. Even had they known, the originator doubted they would have cared, they would have felt entitled to anything Polaris had spent his credits on, despite the fact they had not acknowledged their creation in over a decavorn, not since he had left their ziggurat to live with Prowl. The raiding of Prowl home and possessions while he had been in the medicentre had not been legal, but they had had more than enough credits to overrule something so trivial as the law. Jazz had enough credits to do the same, almost certainly more than they. Prowl was right to be cautious.

 

He left his suite and set out to find the kitchen. There would be time to explore, Prowl imagined there were might be rooms Jazz did not want him venturing into, beyond his own private berthroom, and he preferred to save his explorations for after he knew his limits. Given his duties to the sparklings, their berthroom was unlikely to be off limits, but there were likely to be boundaries there, if not there ought to be. As he walked, the Praxian ran his digits along the wall. Crystal sconces along the walls offered soft illumination, it was not enough for Prowl to be comfortable walking without hesitation. In the coming mega-cycles he would memorize the layout of the sprawling mansion, he would tune his doorwings to better “see” his surrounding. It was possible, even likely, that his optics were adjust to the lower levels of ambient light. He would never see like a Polihexian, but it would not be a handicap, because he would see like a Praxian, and that was nothing to sneer at.

 

Bag of Bolts appeared around the corner and ambled over to him. It appeared to Prowl like his young masters had been helping him with his molt. There were still old, dull panels of plating that needed to fall off, to let the new plating below harden as it was exposed to the air, but he looked remarkably better, for an Insecticon in any case. The beastformer chirped a happy greeting, antenna waving. Prowl offered Bob his servo for another sniff. Rather than sniff him, the Insecticon rubbed his helm against the Praxian’s palm. Prowl gave him the pat and rub he was obviously looking for. Both his and Polaris’ schedules had not been conducive to pet ownership. They had talked about when he had been carrying Bluestreak, they had agreed that it would have been something to consider when this newspark was older. Of course, that had been before Polaris’ death, before the ground beneath Prowl’s peds had been torn from under him. It was not something he though he would be able to give his bitlets in the near or even distant future. Bob rumbled at him, bumped his helm against the Praxian’s legs. Did he teek emotions, even those as well guarded as Prowl’s?

 

“As long as you can keep your helm above the surface, you will not drown,” Prowl said to the buglet. It was the mantra he had repeated to himself in the worst of his mega-cycles. With a final pat to the Insecticon’s helm, he straightened. “I wonder if you fuel in the kitchen?”

 

As if he understood what Prowl was saying, Bob’s antennae perked up and he made a happy chitter and bolted down the hall, in the very direction the caretaker had planned to travel. When they reached the top of the stairs, the Insecticon paused to waited for him, made another funny vocalization and ran down the stairs. His ungainly gate made Prowl think of turbofox kits. Bob was already up to his knee, and it occurred to the Praxian that he did not know if the mechanimal was full grown, or if he still had some upgrades left in him. If the latter was the case, he was going to become quite a beast. So long as his personality remained the same, the Twins would have a formidable watch-bug. With a triumph roar, Bob leapt through the doorway, a few steps in front of Prowl, and skidded across the floor, to the laughter of the mechanisms already gathered in the kitchen.

 

“Bob decided play tour guide for ya, Prowl?” Jazz asked, with a chuckle.

 

“I alluded to fuel,” the Praxian explained. “I am guessing he thinks with his fuel tank.”

 

“That’s Bob,” the progenitor laughed. “Mechlings, before he decides to sing us a song, why don’t ya fill his dishes?”

 

“Come on, ya bottomless pit,” Sunstreaker chided his pet, pulling Bob back from the stand that held two large mechanimal fuel dishes. “We can’t fill them if ya don’t get outta the way.”

 

“If you have the compactor, I’ll get the slop,” Sideswipe said.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” the yellow twin replied. Bob licked all over his face and chassis, holding his master with his small secondary arms. “Ugh! Bob! I get it! Gross, I just polished!”

 

“That’s when he likes best to lick ya,” Jazz said. “Can’t have ya too clean.”

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour, 10 breams  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles
> 
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”
> 
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> X-frame: biracial transformer (refers to transformers who appear neither predominately one or the other of their procreator’s frametype)  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint
> 
> Quartexes
> 
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius
> 
> Season
> 
> Winter: Frigus  
> Spring: Saltus  
> Summer: Calor  
> Fall: Imber


End file.
